


If I Wasn't Alexander...

by popsicletheduck



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Damian Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsicletheduck/pseuds/popsicletheduck
Summary: After Bruce comes back and Dick moves out, Damian finds himself struggling with some uncomfortable nightmares. An unexpected visit might make things better, or maybe just a lot worse.Title and nightmare sequences inspired by the story of Alexander and Diogenes, Shakespeare quote fromTitus Andronicus





	If I Wasn't Alexander...

He feels the weight of the bronze armor on his shoulder, his chest, his legs. The weight of the sword on his hip. It isn’t a burden. It’s a protection. It makes him feel safe.

The weight of the imperial circlet on his head feels like so much more, somehow, but he is long accustomed to its weight.

Its weight gives him power.

He can hear the murmur of the crowd following him.

“He did nothing?” “Nothing. We couldn’t even get him too-” “-not right. It’s an insult.” “They say he’s wise.” “He’s deranged is what he is.” “What do you think-”

He doesn’t listen. It’s an inconsequential sound. Like the wind. Like the waves on a beach.

Like the crunch of the gravel under his boots.

He doesn’t worry. Not about the opinions of nobles. Courtiers. Leeches. His guards will protect him. They are loyal to him to death.

He can protect himself.

He thinks distantly that his mother would be proud to see him. If he didn’t have to lock her and Grandfather up for being a threat to his reign.

The sun darkens as he marches through the ruined city. Why anyone would stay here is beyond him, but…

They say he is wise.

He wrinkles his nose at the smell rising around him. It smells like filth, like human and animal waste.

It smells like wet dog.

He does not wander. He knows where to find him.

He finds him at the back of a half-collapsed alley, lounging among the rubble. Long limbs spread out around him, eyes closed. The very picture of relaxation.

Save for the destruction around him. 

The man is younger than he thought. Barely into his mid-twenties. Hardly a man at all.

This is the man they say is wise?

The man doesn’t stir as he approaches. His eyes do not open. He does not bow, does not prostrate himself before his ruler and master.

His guard move to correct this insult. He waves them back.

They say he is wise.

Let him prove it.

He walks closer. His guard shift uncomfortable. He dismisses it.

He is not afraid of one man.

The man still does not move.

He is standing right over him, his shadow falling across his face.

“They say you are wise.”

The man does not flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Teach me.”

His eyes do not open. Save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he could be dead.

“I said, teach me.”

The man’s eyes crack open just the tiniest bit, miniscule slivers of blue.

“Could you move, please? You’re blocking the sun.”

He is filled with rage. This...this boy, this  _ child,  _ seeks to command  _ him _ ? Refuses to show  _ him _ proper respect? Does he not know to whom he addresses?

He will show him. 

He draws his sword with a ringing hiss.

He sends it straight toward the man’s gut.

The man’s eyes open.

And suddenly…

Damian knows those eyes. Knows that face. Knows that man. 

And he wants to stop, stop the sword, but he can’t. It’s as though he’s watching from a distance, and yet is right there.

He is powerless. 

He can do nothing.

The sword hits its mark, sinks deep into flesh. Blood coats Damian’s hands.

Grayson’s eyes go wide in shock and pain and betrayal. 

Wide and blank and empty.

Dead.

 

Damian bolted upright in bed, unconsciously rubbing his hands against his blankets to wipe off the blood. He tried to breath deeply, but the air seemed to stick in his throat.

Titus was by the side of his head in an instant, shoving his massive head against Damian’s hip, whining softly. 

“I’m okay, boy,” he replied, petting his head with a hand that shook slightly. “It was just a dream.”

Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream. Grayson was alive, he was fine. Just a dream.

He looked around the room, trying to draw comfort in its familiarity. But those wide blue eyes were hiding in every shadow, painfully, horrifically empty, and the swords that hung in the corner were dripping with blood, his blood, and it was pooling on the floor, creeping towards his bed…

Damian leapt out of bed, found himself standing before he was fully conscious of moving.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. Just a pattern of shadows across his floor. Grayson was fi-

What if he wasn’t?

This was a dangerous job and Grayson was out there all on his own. What if he fell into a trap or got shot or his line broke or the building he was in collapsed or got captured and tortured he could be bleeding out in a back alley right now and Damian wouldn’t know, he could be dying and he wouldn’t be able to do anything--

Breath. In, out.

Grayson may be a fool, but he wasn’t incompetent. And Father was out there too, Father would look out for Grayson.

But

Father couldn’t be everywhere at once, Grayson could die before Father could get there, his com could be broken, he couldn’t call for help they wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know until they found his body, empty eyes, wide, blue, empty eyes--

No, no, NO!

Damian shut his eyes, buried his face in his hands. He was tired, so tired, tired of endlessly fighting the demons in his mind. He hadn’t even argued when Father had gone on patrol without him, left him at home. Again. He had been fighting for so long. But he had to keep fighting. When he stopped, when he slipped up…

He didn’t like to think about it.

The demons in his head kept shrieking, about Grayson and Father, about the swords that hung on his wall and the feeling of blood on his hands, about a sinking boat and whispered threats.

He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

He slipped out the door and began padding softly down the long, silent hall, past empty rooms with closed doors and portraits of ancestors long dead. Titus was a warm and welcome presence at his side.

Damian may not have lived in the Manor for very long, but he knew its layout, its halls and corridors, its empty spaces, its useless set dressings and unused frivolities. He knew where he was headed, past cold, dead fireplaces and spotlessly shiny floors, past chandeliers that hung dully in darkness and furniture whose original owners now lay six feet under.

At last, to a large, empty room. Bamian figured it must be a ballroom, but he knew of no gala held here, on the second story of the Manor. He was here now for one reason and one reason alone.

The windows.

Massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Gotham proper. Damian pulled aside the curtains and stared at the city, twinkling like a million stars settled to earth, painting the sky with a wash of red. From here it looked...peaceful. Beautiful. 

“Grayson is out there, Titus,” he told his faithful companion. “And Father. Somewhere.”

All through that long night, as the darkness crept on and the demons shrieked endlessly, Damian sat, with Titus at his back, staring at his city, his father’s city, his family’s city, waiting for the return of one who wasn’t coming.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

Grayson was fine.

 

“Good morning, Master Damian,” Pennyworth greeted him as he wandered into the kitchen for breakfast. He made no reply. He was stiff and sore from sitting near motionless all night on a wooden floor, groggy from an hour or two of unintentional sleep in the early morning hours. Last night’s dream still clung to him, like spiderwebs he couldn’t quite brush off.

Father was quiet. Damian glanced toward his spot at the head of the table…

And found it empty. 

Panic stabbed at his gut. Father was always there when he came into the kitchen, drinking his coffee and skimming the newspaper. Had something happened last night? It was just a regular patrol but something could have gone wrong he’d been out on his own--

“Where’s Father?” he asked, putting all his strength to keeping any quaver out of his voice.

“Master Bruce had a meeting this morning with some potential investors for this new revitalization project of his. He won’t be back until this evening. Now come eat your breakfast, sir, before it goes cold.”

A meeting. Just a meeting. That was fine, even if he wouldn’t see Father until this evening. That was fine.

Pennyworth continued to ramble on about something or other, but Damian was no longer paying attention. Breakfast today was stuffed french toast. His favorite.

The sugar helped to clear his head somewhat. And for a little while, just a moment, a second, he could forget. Forget the demons, forget the pressure forget Gotham. And just be.

Perhaps he would read some Shakespeare this afternoon. Shakespeare was good for forgetting.

_ Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;  _ (Who do you have?)

_ Who, though they cannot answer my distress,  _ (Not even the stones)

_ Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,  _ (Even the stones won’t listen)

_ For that they will not intercept my tale:  _ (Not to you)

_ When I do -- _

The sound of the front door closing echoed through the silent house, startling Damian out of his reading. He glanced at the clock. It was too early for Father to be home, and Alfred had been in the kitchen all day, so who…?

He crept out of the library and through the halls, leaving Titus sleeping at the foot of his chair. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered down through the slats of the railing into the sitting room below. The intruder had his back to him, tossing something onto a sofa. Perfect.

In one smooth movement, Damian launched himself over the railing and onto his unsuspecting target below. That was when things went wrong. As he jumped, his target turned, leaving Damian to collide with the man’s torso instead of his back. They both landed on the couch with a thump, a small tangle of arms and legs.

“I have to say, Damian, your greetings take a little getting use to.” Damian could feel the chuckle in the man’s voice as he looked up into bright blue eyes. The same eyes that had haunted his dreams, except this time full of warmth and life and a spark of amusement.

“-tt- That wasn’t a greeting. I thought you were an intruder,” he replied as he worked to untangle himself from what might have been considered a hug.

Grayson smiled. “Of course. Didn’t Alfred tell you I was coming? I called this morning.”

So that’s what Pennyworth had been going on about this morning. And why he’d been in the kitchen all day.

“Why  _ are _ you here, Grayson?” Damian had finally succeeded in righting himself and glared suspiciously at him. Luckily, Grayson was still sitting sprawled on the couch, so he didn’t even have to look up to glare.

“This is my home too, even if I don’t live here anymore.”

Damian continued to glare. That wasn’t an explanation, wasn’t a reason to randomly come wandering back in after moving out. After leaving.

Grayson sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, lowered his eyes. “Came over to use the computer. But,” he brightened, getting to his feet and stretching a little, “no reason we can’t have a little fun first, right?”

Grayson had always been a terrible liar. He wasn’t here to use the computer. Or, at least, that wasn’t the only reason.

Most likely, he was here for Pennyworth’s cooking.

But, though he would never tell him, Damian was pleased Grayson was there, whatever the reason. He had been reading Shakespeare all morning, but, thought they were quieter in the daylight hours, the demons still wouldn’t leave him alone. Even Shakespeare wasn’t enough to forget.

But Grayson wasn’t forgetting. Grayson was all the best parts of remembering.

 

The cave was cool, filled with the gentle hum of machinery and the soft rustling of the bats. The smell of metal and Kevlar and damp.

The smell of sweat, soft grunts when blows connected. And Grayson’s incessant talking. He truly never could shut up, even when sparring.

They had played video games for most of the afternoon. Grayson had brought some new game that he’d “been dying to play, c’mon, Dami, just give it a try” that involved stupidly powerful laser guns and time travel and a completely indecipherable plot. Surprisingly, Damian had enjoyed it, not that he would give Grayson the satisfaction of knowing that. 

But Grayson was unable to sit still for practically any reason, and after one too many jostles, Damian had suggested that if Grayson touched him again it was going to get violent. Grayson had only laughed and turned off the game and headed down to the Cave.

It was...soothing, sparring with Grayson. Like a game. Like a puzzle. Like a dance.

Like home.

Although just how Grayson had managed to survive this long when he was so incredibly sloppy was a mystery to Damian.

There. He left his torso unguarded again. Damian slipped in close, intending to drive an elbow into his gut--

_ He sends it straight towards the man’s gut. _

_ The sword hits its mark, sinks deep into flesh. Blood coats Damian’s hands. _

_ Wide and blank and empty. _

Damian tried to pull back, but his weight was all wrong. He stepped, stumbled back, hit the mat with a whoosh as Grayson swept his legs out from under him. But there was concern in Grayson’s eyes when he offered him a hand up.

“You okay?”

“I am uninjured.” Damian ignored the offered hand as he rose to his feet.

“That’s not exactly what I mea--”

“-tt- I am fine, Grayson.”

Leaving Grayson standing on the mat, Damian headed for the showers. But even standing under the hot spray he shivered at the memory of those empty eyes.

There was nothing he had that couldn’t be lost.

 

Grayson found him in the library, staring blankly at  _ The Complete Works of William Shakespeare _ resting open on his lap.

“Thought I might find you in here. You wanna watch a movie? Your pick.”

“ _ Lilo and Stitch _ ,” Damian replied without thinking, feeling blood rush to his face when his brain caught up with his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving for patrol soon?” he continued once his brain was back in control. He hadn’t expected to see Grayson again after dinner. After all, he had said he had work to do, and while Father had made it clear at dinner that he would be going out alone again tonight, such declarations held no sway over Grayson.

“Actually, I was going to take the night off. Figured I could use the break. You go put the movie in, I’ll go get the popcorn.”

“The seasoned kind.”

“Course.” He ruffled Damian’s hair and headed off to the kitchen.

Why did Grayson keep lying to him?

 

They had ended up watching  _ Lilo and Stitch, _ and the sequel, and then  _ Treasure Planet _ (“aw, c’mon Dami, you got to watch your favorite, can’t we watch one of mine?” “-tt- That children’s movie is  _ not _ my favorite”) before Pennyworth had come up and ordered them both to bed.

Now Damian lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, willing sleep not to come. If he couldn’t avoid his dreams in the daytime, what hope did he have at night?

 

The only sound is the man’s labored breathing.

He leers over the man, hisses at him through his teeth.

“You said you’d teach me.”

The man stares up at him, regret mingled with the pain in his eyes.

“I tried.”

He growls, twists his sword still embedded in the man’s gut.

The man screams.

“You gave me nothing but nonsense!”

“Is it...my fault...you didn’t...understand?”

Blood pools on the ground, stains the tips of his boots. It coats his hands, drips down his arms and off his fingertips.

It covers the ground, runs into the rivers. Leeches into the oceans, stains the sky.

The man’s breathing gets softer.

And softer.

And softer.

And stops.

Silence falls over a blood red world.

Empty save for a corpse dressed in black and blue.

 

Damian’s eyes snapped open.

He fumbled with the bedside lamp. In its soft yellow glow he examined his hands.

Thin and small and brown. Just his hands. Completely normal.

Not covered in blood.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

But--

Just because he couldn’t see it, didn’t mean his hands weren’t bloodstained. All the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten this fair hand. He had waded too far in blood. He was impure, poisoned, and that poison would leech out of him and kill the world, everyone close to him, it had already gotten Grayson, he was dead, dead, dead, silence and empty eyes--

No, no. Just a dream, just, just--

Damian closed his eyes, but he could still see that sprawled corpse, blood speckling the blue across his chest.

Just, just--

He just needed to see. Prove to the demons it was a dream. He knew, of course, but…

It never hurt to be sure. Completely sure. 

Damian slipped out of bed, being careful to step over Titus, still fast asleep by the side of his bed.

The hallway was exactly the same as last night and yet...it wasn’t, because one of those empty rooms was no longer empty.

Damian nudged the door open, carefully, slowly, quietly, just enough to wiggle inside, crept slowly, quietly, towards the bed.

There was Grayson, flopped across the bed, his breathing slow and regular and even.

Alive.

The tightness in Damian’s chest loosened. He could breathe again.

Grayson was fine.

He stirred in his sleep, his eyelids fluttered.

“Dami?” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep.

Retreat, retreat, retreat--

“Damian,” Grayson called, his voice clearer.

Guiltily, Damian turned back around. Grayson was sitting up in bed, blankets still draped across him. 

“I apologize for disturbing you, I…” Having no acceptable explanation for his behavior, Damian simply trailed off, began edging towards the door.

Grayson shook his head, shifted, patted the bed next to him.

“C’mere.”

Damian crossed the floor slowly, carefully settled himself in the spot Grayson had indicated.

“You want to talk about it?” Grayson finally asked.

He shook his head. Just thinking about it made his throat tighten, his stomach churn, his hands shake.

“Okay.” Grayson put an arm around him, gently guiding him down, then lay down next to him.

This close, Damian could feel his warmth, hear his gentle breathing, feel his heartbeat.

“Damian?” Grayson’s words were soft and gentle. “You don’t have to worry. Your dad and I, we’re careful. Always.”

“-tt-  _ You _ are an idiot.”

Grayson chuckled. “Maybe, but a careful one. Everything will be fine.”

“You can’t promise that.” There were no promises, no guarantees, no certainties.

“I can. Because no matter what happens, I’ll always love you.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“No, Dami. That’s how love works. Even if you slip up, I’ll still be here for you, okay?”

Damian didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

So he laid there, listening to Grayson’s heartbeat, his breath, listened and slipped slowly, contentedly, into sleep.

Grayson was fine.


End file.
